


Over Unquiet Stones

by direSin



Series: Ever After [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Post-Canon, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:26:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26334850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/direSin/pseuds/direSin
Summary: Yennefer studies him with narrowed eyes. “Does my stature amuse you?”“It’s not that,” Geralt says. “It’s that you’re somehow plenty capable of staring down taller people.”That startles a laugh out of her; she tosses her head, showing the lovely line of her throat, and it’s a few seconds before he can tear his eyes away. It’s difficult to keep from kissing her again but at this rate they’ll never make it past the doorstep, so he resists the temptation.
Relationships: Geralt/Yennefer
Series: Ever After [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1913710
Comments: 46
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a sequel to [Between The Shadow And The Soul](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13907430) so reading that one first is recommended. Takes place sometime after the end of B&W and assumes the Empress ending. 
> 
> *Title from a poem by Pablo Neruda.*
> 
> No part of the Netflix show has any bearing on this story and will ever have any bearing on anything I write in this fandom.

The birds are circling, high above him, a dark whirling cloud against the cloudless blue of the sky. Crows? Ravens? He should be able to tell but he can’t; it seems his sight is starting to fail.

It won’t be long now.

The thought doesn’t make him panic. There’s a comfort, a detached sort of calm in the finality of it. He can’t remember what happened and he can’t feel the wound but he’s lying in a pool of blood, listening to his own labored breathing, and he’s grateful to be free of pain. He’s always known that this moment would come, that this is how it would end. No witcher dies in his own bed.

Unnatural colors dance across his vision, blotted out now and then by black spots, so he can’t be sure how long she’s been standing there, watching him with those fey blue eyes. She looks as she had the first time he saw her - bare feet, a simple white shift, daisies woven into her fair hair. She kneels at his side, pale and luminous, and the chill he feels is the same too. When she speaks her voice is just as before, low, sweet, haunting.

“Are you ready?” she asks.

He swallows a mouthful of fear.

“I was expecting you,” he tells her. It comes out unsteady, more quiet than he’d have liked.

She tilts her head, smiling that same aloof smile, and holds out her hand. ”In the end no one is unafraid. No one. It’s why I am here.”

But there’s something else besides fear, something that stabs him in ways he can’t explain as it fights to surface through the molasses of his thoughts. Gilt? Regret? It has to mean something but he can’t think what.

He reaches up and takes the offered hand.

A spike of sheer vicious cold shoots through him, lancing up his arm straight toward his heart. It takes his breath and his heart skips a beat, two, before it labors into rhythm again. Someone is screaming, raw and ragged, and it takes too long for him to recognize his own voice. He hurts everywhere, inside and out. The ground beneath him shakes, a thick fog filling his vision, his lungs. The world sways, begins to fade -

A voice cuts through the pounding of blood in his ears, through the tumult of fear and pain. “Geralt!”

He knows that voice; would have recognized it anywhere - So that’s what it was, that something he couldn’t quite grasp but his fading consciousness refused to let go of.

 _I’m sorry, Yen_ , he thinks. _I’m sorry we didn’t have enough time._

“We have time. All you’ve got to do is wake.”

Wake?

He realizes he can draw breath, if not painlessly then at least steadily. He forces himself to lift his head and the fog shrouding his vision swirls and thins, revealing coal-black curls and violet eyes shadowed with concern.

Yennefer. Yen.

“I was - ” His voice is hoarse and he has to swallow. Geralt closes his eyes again, his head aching. He’s only half-aware of where his limbs are and his thoughts are slow and muddled.

“You weren’t,” Yennefer says, smoothing his hair from his forehead. “It was only a nightmare.”

She settles beside him, vibrantly alive, and threads her fingers through his. He feels a touch of her magic, warm and steadying. Geralt sighs, runs his free hand over his face. Her presence is a tangible comfort and he can feel, just barely, her fingers moving over his skin, tendrils of warmth that push back the fog clouding his thoughts. He glances up, aware of her eyes on him, and then away again. “I’ve met her before - ” he starts and trails off. “It’s nothing.” He tries for a smile, to show he means it.

“Death?” she asks bluntly. She was never one for pretenses.

Geralt buries his face in his hands, drags his fingers back through his hair.

Yennefer waits.

“Yes,” he admits eventually. “I had to take Black Gull - ”

“The hallucinogens.” He can see, out of the corner of his eye, that she purses her lips in disapproval. “When was that?”

“A year after Sodden. I didn’t know about the battle until then.” He stares at his hands, remembering, his throat suddenly tight with that old sense of terrible loss, so immense there’s no way past it. “I thought you - “

“I’m here,” she says, shifting, pressing her body against him. She kisses him and his breath catches again, not in fear this time. But when she pulls back far enough to look into his eyes his vision waivers. Beloved features blur, shift; the glorious violet of her eyes dims to a cool blue, remote and empty of anything recognizably human. Geralt blinks and the woman next to him resolves into Yennefer once more.

“This is real,” she tells him as her fingers trace the length of him, sending pleasure licking up his spine like flames. He opens his mouth under hers, want gathering thick and heavy in his gut. He needs her, needs to feel her around him, and he can't wait another second. He flips her on her hands and knees and thrusts in - too quickly, rougher than he meant to. He goes stills, clenching his teeth against the urge to keep moving, wishing he could see her face.

She rocks back against him, no hesitation. “I won’t break, Geralt,” she says over her shoulder. “Take what you need.”

He groans, tipping forward as he grinds deeper into her, holding her tight, possessive in a way he always thought she’d hate. But she seems to relish it, at least this once, letting him take charge completely, arching into his thrusts, spurring him on with short husky cries. Every time he fucks into her he feels a little more grounded, the wet heat of her and the hot silk of her skin driving out the lingering chill. She’s everything, reshaping his reality for him, and he rides her in a near-frenzy, gasping desperately, shivering with tension and sharp spiking pleasure, until her muscles start to flutter around his cock and he comes, so hard it throws his thighs into stinging cramps. His muscles burn and his hands shake as he collapses sideways.

After a while he rolls onto his back. She sprawls half on top of him, half on the bed, turning her face to lay a cheek against his sternum. Usually he tries to give her space; usually she pulls away if he doesn’t. He closes his eyes, enjoying her weight, listening to her slowing breathing; tucking the memory away, just in case.

“Geralt?” her fingers stroking his hip still.

“Don’t stop,” he murmurs, surfacing from almost-sleep.

“I’m sorry.”

That wakes him enough to open his eyes. “What for?”

“For taking so long.” She pushes up on one elbow, silent for a moment. “For hurting you, the last time around.”

Geralt covers her hand with his own. “Yen, it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. We don’t have to talk about it.”

“I think we do. We’ve wasted enough time, not talking.”

It’s true. They’ve been talking around their wounds for so many years, trying to ignore the pain of them - afraid it would overtake them if they paid it any attention. Afraid it would tear them apart. He’s not sure he’s willing to take that chance. “Maybe,” he says, frowning.

“But maybe not now.” Yennefer touches her lips to his temple. “Sleep, witcher.”

He drifts off to the feel of her hair tickling his skin. He jolts awake with a sense of something amiss but after a heart-stopping second hears her voice just beyond the closed door.

“ - asleep. What is it?”

“Please forgive the disturbance but the cook would like to inquire if the lady will be staying for dinner.”

“The lady will be staying permanently. As for dinner, I don’t imagine we’ll get around to it - but if we do, we can manage on our own. The cook may retire for the day. Is that all?”

“Ah, not quite. If I may - ”

“Yes?”

“I believe I owe the lady an apology. This is Toussaint, where romance is held in the utmost regard. Needless to say I am well acquainted with Master Dandelion’s ballads. Yet I failed to recognize who you were.”

There’s a short pause before Yennefer asks, “What is your name again?”

“Barnabas-Basil Foulty, at your service.”

“Well, Barnabas-Basil, I think we shall get along just fine after all.”

“Thank you, my lady. Nothing would please me more.”

She returns to the room. She’s wearing his shirt, its sleeves rolled up; the shirt hangs past her knees. It’s one of the most alluring things Geralt has ever seen.

“C’mere,” he says, slurring the word so badly Yennefer laughs. But she crosses the floor and lets him tug apart the edges of the shirt, shedding it with negligent grace before he drags her into his arms.

“Go back to sleep,” she says, a hint of laughter still in her voice, as she stretches out beside him. “My vanity couldn’t take it if you started snoring while inside me.”

“M’awake,” Geralt protests, his lips slow and drowsy against her collarbone.

She cups her hand around his jaw, tilting his head. Her mouth has the comfortable heat of a banked fire. “Sleep, love. We have all the time in the world.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't feel particularly obligated to adhere to the exact layout/size of Corvo Bianco since it makes little sense except from the gameplay perspective. So I am taking some liberties with that - but not to the point of it being unrecognizable.

He wakes to sunlight and an empty bed. A light breeze wafts through the open window, rich with the fragrance of honeysuckle and pine, and not a trace of her scent lingers in the room. Geralt sits up abruptly, throwing the covers back. His heart lurches and hovers in a dizzying void but even as a screaming clawing panic rises up inside him, a part of him is grimly unsurprised. Of course it was too good to be true; of course it wasn’t going to last. The thought makes his chest hurt and his hands shake. He realizes he began to believe he would no longer be alone.

He dresses, concentrating on each movement, each simple decision. He rakes a hand through his hair and ties it back with a leather thong. He makes the bed. When it’s all finished and there’s nothing left to do he takes a deep breath and leaves the room.

The front door opens just as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. He stares at her, silhouetted against the morning sky; the sun behind her is too bright, casting her face in shadow, and he can’t see her eyes.

“Yen,” he says with false calm, and holds his breath until his vision is fuzzy around the edges and he's seeing flecks of light. She’s still there. He’d like to say something else, something easy and ordinary - _Beautiful morning. Did you sleep well?_ \- but he can’t, his throat tight and his eyes stinging.

She comes closer and any determination on his part to appear unaffected crumbles under the weight of her gaze. “Geralt,” she says. There's a stricken look on her face. He tries to avoid her eyes. “Geralt, look at me. I didn’t mean for you to wake up alone.”

“It’s all right,” he says hoarsely, forcing the words through his throat. He feels exposed and open, as vulnerable and naked as one could be.

Her fingertips touch his cheek, cool like raindrops. He doesn’t resist when she pulls his head down, stroking his hair as she whispers, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

Something in his chest coils into a knot, momentarily squeezing the breath out of him before relief floods him and he wraps his arms around her waist. The heat in his body is spreading again. He moves closer so he can bury his face in her hair, closing his eyes, savoring the scent. The sun goes behind a cloud and the room dips into gray.

With a steadying breath he lets go of her. “Yen? Why is there a book floating in midair?”

“Because I needed my hands and it would’ve been rude to drop it on the ground. I borrowed it from Barnabas-Basil. I wanted to let you rest but watching you sleep isn’t as riveting as you might think.”

Geralt chokes out a soggy sort of laugh, only then truly aware of the intense relief he feels. “I imagine _The Garden of Desires_ is far more riveting, yes.”

“It’s Rita’s latest,” she says.

“Rita’s?” He frowns in confusion.

“Margarita Laux-Antille. You remember her, don’t you? Fabien Darling is her pen name.”

“Margarita Laux-Antille writes trashy romance novels,” Geralt says slowly, amused, as he watches the book sail through the air and land neatly on the sideboard across the hall.

“They have their charm,” Yennefer says with a shrug. “Besides, what else would one read in Toussaint?”

Fair point, he thinks, and forgets all about it in the next breath because she’s already walking up the stairs. She looks back at him over her shoulder and the light in her eyes sends goosebumps prickling over his skin. He isn’t sure how he manages to climb the steps without tripping over thin air.

Her clothes gone, she undoes the laces of his trousers so slowly he thinks he might die before she’s done. Once she finally eases them down his thighs she leans up to kiss him. His cock rests against the flat warmth of her belly, trapped between them. Her fingers curl around it, stroking until he can’t bear it anymore and has to break the kiss to gasp a warning to her.

She takes his hand and leads him to the bed. He stares as she stretches out on it, letting her thighs fall open, watching him watch her. When his tongue flicks against her clit she digs her nails into the muscles of his back and her eyes flutter shut. But she opens them to look at him, giving him a share of the pleasure back as her lips part and her back arches. He pulls her into his lap. She flings her arms out to grab onto the slats of the headboard, rising and falling as he thrusts into her, and he can only breathe harshly, closing his eyes against the breathtaking wet heat gripping his cock, until she tightens around him and his whole world goes bright and blurry.

Before languor can seep into his bones she nudges him with her knee. “Don’t fall asleep,” she says, still panting a little. “I’m fucking starved.”

Geralt huffs a laugh. “I love you,” he says, too pleasure-wrecked to hold back. Then he remembers he’s got nothing to lose and he adds, “I’ve missed you,” and it’s a thrill all of its own, to be able to say it without restraint.

“Me too. Now feed me, witcher.” But she finds his mouth by feel and kisses him, sweet and lingering, before she slips out of bed. “I’m so damn hungry I could probably eat those frozen wolf livers you used to carry in your saddlebags without gagging.”

He doesn’t have any wolf livers, frozen or otherwise, and hasn’t in years. But there is a plateful of honey cakes in the kitchen that Marlene must have baked last night, and pears in a large earthenware bowl, and no shortage of grapes.

Yennefer bites into a honey cake and closes her eyes in bliss as she chews. Geralt sets a glass of water next to her plate before he takes a chair across the table from her. “Sorry, no apple juice,” he says regretfully.

She swallows her food and washes it down with water. “I don’t love apple juice, you know. Only the memory of you trying to bribe me with it.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” He smiles, remembering.

“After a fashion,” she says in that warm wry voice he loves. “I thought, what a kind, well-mannered burglar - and fit, too.”

“That must’ve been why you flung magic at me.”

“That’s why it was meant to paralyze, not kill, despite your clever mouth. Not that I mind it anymore - not since I’ve learned you can put it to good use.”

Geralt widens his eyes in mock dismay. “Yen, did you just make a juvenile innuendo?”

Yennefer laughs and he laughs with her. Gods, he’s all but forgotten how that feels. He eats a pear, watching her across his dining table, and wonders how much of him would be left had he unraveled the strands that bind them together. He knows he never wants to find out.

“Do you want to come outside?” he asks when she pushes her empty plate away.

She lifts her head to smile at him. “I thought you might want to show me around. Barnabas-Basil offered but I told him I’d rather wait.”

“I’m glad you did.” He wouldn’t like to have missed the chance to show her his home - the home he wants to share with her. He’s wanted it for so long he can’t even recall when he first thought of it. That night on the Isle of Thanedd, before everything went to hell? The memory is both painful and sweet. When he looks back on their history, so much of it is shadowed - but here and there sunlight spills down, in sudden bursts of improbable joy.

That isn’t nothing, he thinks. And maybe they’ve found their way out of the darkness.

Outside the air is warm, with a hint of afternoon heat at the edges. Geralt starts out with his hands balled into fists, wallowing a little in his fears - What if she finds the place lacking? What if it’s not to her taste? What if - but she reaches for his hand.

“Geralt, you’ve nothing to worry about,” she tells him. “I think your home is charming. Truly.”

He lets her twine her fingers with his. “It’s your home too… if you want.” He tries to smile but he can feel it’s all crooked; he swallows hard and tries again.

Her fingers squeeze his hand briefly. “Thank you,” she says and reaches up to kiss him.

Her hands come up to cradle his face and his arms slide around her, pulling her close. When she breaks the kiss he can feel her breath on his cheek for a moment before she eases back down. She was on her tiptoes, even in her heels. He ducks his head to hide a smile. At times it catches him off guard, how small and delicate her frame is compared to the steel of her.

Yennefer studies him with narrowed eyes. “Does my stature amuse you?”

“It’s not that,” Geralt says. “It’s that you’re somehow plenty capable of staring down taller people.”

That startles a laugh out of her; she tosses her head, showing the lovely line of her throat, and it’s a few seconds before he can tear his eyes away. It’s difficult to keep from kissing her again but at this rate they’ll never make it past the doorstep, so he resists the temptation.

They pass by the row of evergreens and walk, side by side, down the wide stone steps. She pauses to raise her eyebrows at the peacocks waddling across the path.

“They were here before me,” Geralt explains. “It didn’t feel right to evict them.”

“Good thing, too. Peacock is delicious.” Yennefer keeps a straight face for a few moments before her mouth quirks. “Fear not, witcher. I’ve no intention of eating your pets.”

“They are not,” he argues, feeling oddly defensive. One of the peacocks fans its luminous tail and preens, fixing him with a beady eye.

She puts a calming hand on his arm. “Geralt,” she says, “kindness isn’t a character flaw.”

He shows her the olive grove, the herb garden, the vineyard where grapes hang heavy on the vine. They cross the wooden bridge over the stream and enter the greenhouse with its riots of flowers. The air is redolent with the scent of rose and winter cherry and she closes her eyes and inhales, holding her breath. The wind stirs her dark hair and the hem of her skirt. The mingled astonishment and joy on her face make a knot in his belly. She didn’t expect this, he thinks.

A sense of unreality grips him; fear touches him with icy fingers and a chill shivers down his spine. Maybe he’s still lying in that unmarked field - wherever that is - bleeding out and his dying brain is constructing all this, in the last instant before it shuts down. He reaches over and takes her hand, the motion jerky and unsteady. She presses her other hand to his cheek and he leans into her touch until the panic recedes and he can breathe once again.

By the time they return to the manor there’s lamb roast with leeks and parsnips ready to serve and loaves of warm crusty bread. Geralt fills their glasses with wine.

"House vintage," he says. "From last year’s crop."

"Geralt, you actually sound proud about the wine," Yennefer says with a faint smile.

"I _am_ proud. Do you have any idea of the intricacies of wine-making?” He grimaces, tearing off a hunk of bread. “This is the first time in three years I haven’t turned out vinegar vintage."

She takes a long drink. “Not bad,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “Not bad at all. Your heightened senses come in handy, I imagine?”

“Mhm. Choosing the grapes and the yeast and all that. And I found, after the first two years, that if a fresh batch doesn’t smell good to me, it’s not worth aging.”

They bring the wine with them and a plate laid with melon slices when they move to the terrace. The afternoon light is turning gold; the climbing rose vines throw verdant shadows on the flagstones. Yennefer settles in a chaise, reclining at leisure. Geralt takes a slice of melon and she shifts to make room for him to sit down beside her.

“Someday I will build a proper training course here,” he tells her, gesturing at the meadow the terrace overlooks.

“Someday?”

He shrugs as he watches the fireflies blink on and off. “Next spring, with any luck.”

“Geralt,” Yennefer says, savoring her wine in small sips. “You do realize I’m filthy rich? If you want to build a training course, there’s nothing to stop you. You don’t have to wait.”

He isn’t sure how to feel about that. “Going to keep me?” he quips.

“Yes,” she says. “I’m keeping you.” She brushes his jaw with her fingertips. Her eyes are dark and serious and he isn’t so dense as to think she’s talking about gold anymore.

He catches her fingers and kisses them.

The orange glow of the sunset deepens into shadows. The fireflies glint.


	3. Chapter 3

The sun gently touches his face, peeking through the shutters. Yennefer stirs against his shoulder. Geralt looks at her, stretched out in his bed, her limbs sprawled, and smiles to himself. How many years did he chase this fantasy? It feels like a miracle, this second chance at first times, and damn if he isn’t going to enjoy every minute of it.

He rolls off the bed and dresses quickly, still smiling. But as he strides to the door he’s reminded of the previous morning, of that first awful stab of fear when he woke up to find her gone. The thought of returning to an empty house makes him ice-cold all over, throat suddenly tight.

It’s ridiculous. He’s being ridiculous. Even if he can’t stop the anxiety that flutters in his stomach he should be able to ignore it. He needs to get a grip on himself.

He lingers for another moment, watching her, before he leaves the room. It’s best to indulge in hope as he would in expensive liquor, he thinks; small portions rationed out, so that he doesn't go through the day with a muddled head and a heart that wrings itself out.

His feet carry him down the stairs, across the terrace and up the rise beyond it. In one direction the grassy slope falls away in a long descent towards the road. In the other a narrow footpath winds its way further up the hill, around the edge of a small lake and through an untamed pocket of woods. Geralt steps onto the path and begins to run. The long rays of the rising sun slant over the fertile earth, green fields touched with autumn’s gold rushing past. The lake blushes in the dawn’s light. The air is full of bird-cries and the rippling whisper of trees.

He feels anxious at staying away too long and anxious at returning. When he reaches the lake on his way back he undresses and swims toward the tiny island in the middle of it. The swim doesn’t clear his mind but at least he isn’t sweaty anymore.

He moves carefully through the house, the weight of apprehension bearing down on him as he pushes open the bedroom door. Violet eyes blink open enough to see him. He exhales slowly.

“Good morning,” he says, almost dizzy with relief.

Yennefer makes a vague noise and buries her face against the pillow, eyes drifting closed again. Geralt pads across the floor to the bed and waits.

It’s a few minutes before she stirs. “Is it noon yet?”

“Not even close.” He tries not to grin like a fool and fails.

She pushes her hair back from her face so she can glare at him. “Then why, pray tell, are you waking me up?”

“Breakfast in bed,” he says, offering her a clay pot.

She sits up to take it from him. He can see the instance she notices the cuts and scratches on his berry-stained hands. “Did you battle brambles to pick raspberries for me?” She sets the pot down on the bedside table and brings his hands to her mouth, pressing her lips to the hot scraped skin.

Geralt eases an arm around her shoulders and she moves closer, a hint of her perfume teasing his senses. “Witcher, you’re overdressed,” she says. Her voice gets low and husky on the last word. Still heavy-lidded with sleep, her curls in a glorious disarray, she looks more beautiful than ever. Maybe it’s the light in her eyes when she smiles at him like that.

He can feel her watching him as he strips off his clothes. She kneels up on the bed to kiss her way down his stomach; the hot marks of her mouth cool quickly and give him goosebumps. Her lips slide over the head of his cock, a slow liquid wave of pleasure that has him immediately sense-shocked. He arches his back to meet her mouth, reaching down to tangle one hand in her hair.

“Mother, where the hell are you?” says a voice he knows very well and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

Yennefer calms him with a touch to his arm, letting his cock slip from her lips. “A xenovox,” she murmurs as she extends her hand. A small silver disk appears in her palm. “In Toussaint,” she says laconically.

“Well, you'd better get here right quick because - ” Ciri cuts herself off. “Wait, what? Did you say ‘Toussaint’?”

“I did.”

“Oh my gods. Oh my gods, finally! It’s about bloody time! Geralt, do you hear me? It’s about bloody time!”

“I think they hear you in Novigrad,” Yennefer says but she’s smiling.

“So you’re not coming back,” Ciri says after a pause.

“I am,” Yennefer says and Geralt stills, a sliver of ice in his heart. “I’ll need to get my things.” She’s talking to Ciri but she’s looking at him and her mouth curves in a faint smile.

“I could - if you want - I could bring them for you?” Ciri asks.

“Ciri, you don’t need an excuse. Come whenever you wish. Tell her, Geralt.”

“Of course,” Geralt says, casting her a put-upon look because he has to make his voice light and steady and not like he’s still hard and his balls are aching. “Ciri, you’re welcome any time. Nothing would make me - Nothing would make us happier.”

“All right, then. I’m going to have to - Well, I’ve got to calm things down here a bit but I’ll be there soon.”

Yennefer sends the xenovox away. “You heard her, witcher.” She runs her hand up his thigh. “We don’t have much time. Unless you wish for her to walk in on us again?”

Geralt grunts, throwing himself on the bed with a will, then backtracks and lifts his head to stare at her. “What do you mean, ‘again’?”

“I mean exactly what you think I mean. You didn’t know?”

“No. No, I didn’t. And I’d like to pretend I still don’t.”

She stifles a laugh against his sternum. “As you say,” she murmurs, kissing him almost before the words are out, and he pushes everything else from his mind.

They manage to clean up and dress and even come downstairs, if only just, by the time the air distorts in a visible ripple and Ciri steps into the room. She glances curiously around and launches herself into Geralt’s arms.

“How did you know where to go?” he asks as he hugs her. He didn’t think about that until now. “You’ve never been here before.”

“It doesn’t matter. I can come to you, or Yen. Anyone, really, if the connection is strong enough. Took me some time but I figured it out.” Ciri steps back with a wry smile. “Better late than never. Right?” Her gaze is a little too perceptive, knows him a little too well.

“Right,” Geralt says, finding an answering smile.

He watches her go to Yennefer next, stooping to hold her close for a long moment. They don’t exchange any words but they don’t seem to need them.

Ciri stays for the better part of the day. They spend some time wandering the estate, the three of them, and when he slips his arm around Yennefer’s waist lets him keep it there. They eat a midday meal out on the terrace, sharp crumbling cheese and rolled grape leaves stuffed with spiced meat. He has no idea what kind of meat but it’s delicious and he trusts Marlene. He tells her story to Yennefer and Ciri, and after that the story of the Beast of Beauclair, and then, for good measure, the one about Olgierd and Master Mirror.

When Ciri says she wants to spar Geralt is happy to oblige; he figured she would. But he has no training swords and the risk of injuring her worries him a little. It proves unfounded because, to his surprise, she’s in much better shape than she was a few months ago. In the end they’re both intact, tired and thoroughly pleased with themselves and each other - and also a sweaty mess that has Yennefer wrinkling her nose in disgust.

Grinning, Ciri tells him she started training again after his visit to Nilfgaard. She really meant to keep in contact with him, Geralt thinks, and the knowledge warms him. On impulse he goes and retrieves her sword that she gave into his keeping in White Orchard, when she told him she’d accepted Emhyr’s offer. She takes it without hesitation and if her eyes are a little too bright he isn’t the one to call attention to it since he’s no better off.

“Geralt,” Yennefer says after Ciri leaves, trailing a faint shimmer of her magic, “that knee of yours needs a real healer. You’re favoring it, and don’t you dare try to tell me otherwise. It just so happens that I know someone. She goes by the name of Visenna. A talented healer - ” She doesn’t miss his flinch and stops short. “You know her. But of course you do. For fuck’s sake, is there a sorceress this side of the Dragon Mountains that you haven’t - ”

“It’s not like that,” Geralt says. A pang stings through his chest. Here they are, at odds again, and it only took two days.

“No? How is it, then?” She turns away with a shake of her head. “Do you know what? Never mind. On second thought I don’t want to know.”

“Yen - ”

”I mean it, Geralt. I don’t want to - ”

“She’s my mother,” he says.

She turns to him abruptly. Geralt looks away, unwilling to meet her gaze. The sun going down gleams through the trees. A willow trails its long branches over the footpath, the fronds waving in the breeze.

“I didn’t realize you knew your mother,” Yennefer says. He can hear the effort to keep her voice even and gentle.

“Vesemir told me a long time ago.”

“Have you spoken with her?”

“Once.” Old anger throbs in him. He doesn’t think he can talk about it, not even with her, and he isn’t sure how she’ll react to that. But she doesn’t ask anything more and he can accept the comfort of her touch. He flattens his hand over hers. Out of the corner of his eye he can see her smile. It spans the silence between them.


End file.
